


Chaperone

by counteragent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/counteragent/pseuds/counteragent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was here to make sure. He was damn well going to make sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaperone

This was not in any way right.

Dean shifted his stance inside the dark closet. His thoughts were like crickets that wouldn’t freakin’ shut up—not right—not right— not right—not right—not right. Dean’d shoot them if he could.

The motel room door opened and clicked shut again. Dean heard it like the sound of a safety flicking off before a shot. He was committed, now, no matter how deadly this might all end up.

Through the closed door, Dean heard Sam ask, “So, Jenny…would you like a drink? 

“You’ve already bought me three. I wouldn’t want to be greedy.” The woman—Jenny’s—voice was rich and warm, not at all girlish. Dean could hear the smile in it as she continued. 

“OK, maybe I’ll be just a little greedy.” There was the sound of a coat zipper and a rustle of fabric.

“Is that right?” Sam’s voice was bemused enough that Dean figured it was probably Sam getting relieved of his top. Dean spared a small smirk, because leave it to Sammy to be surprised by a sure thing when it was staring him in the face.

Sam must have figured it out quick, though, because Jenny let out a small surprised “oh!” and the bed creaked as it took on sudden weight. Dean’s hand came up to the door handle and stilled, poised. That sound could mean a lot of things.

“Hey there, tiger,” Jenny said. Dean dropped his hand slowly. 

“Hey, yourself,” Sam said, and Dean hoped that Sam wasn’t counting on dirty talk to see him through this because that was not an opening line worthy of a Winchester.

“Mmm, these are nice,” Jenny said, and Dean’s mind supplied muscles? before he reminded it to shut the hell up. 

Then there were the wet sounds of kissing—Sam was letting his moves do the talking, good choice—interspersed with small moans and mmm-hmms. Dean thanked God (by rote—because clearly if there were a god, Dean would have been allowed to die long before this moment) that the sounds were coming from the chick or Dean’d be duty-bound to catalog them for blackmail later. As it was, he could focus on…his multiplication tables. Perfect for fighting off supernatural mind control and death by embarrassment. 

Dean was only somewhere in the fours—either Sammy moved fast or Dean was a bit rusty with the third grade math—when the timbre of the Mmms and Oh yeahs (still all Jenny, Dean noted) grew more frantic. 

“Clothes, off. Now,” she said. Dean had never been happier to hear a woman get bossy. If she was asking for it, he knew she wanted what she was getting.

“Oh, I think you first,” Sam said, and god dammit. Sam’s sex-voice was at least half his “bad cop” voice. Interviewing witnesses was never going to be the same again.

Dean silently leaned his forehead against the door. God, this was so fucked. This was just…5X4 is 20, 5X5 is 25, 5X6 is 30…

Sam groaned for the first time, a needy low sound. Dean gritted his teeth and ran through his Sam inventory. Pain, no. Vision, no. Dean’s bad fart joke, no. Shower jack-off session heard through cheap motel walls—maybe. 

The ripping of a condom wrapper settled it. Jack-off session. Goddamn, the fives were definitely too easy for this part. 7X6 is 42, 7X7 is 49, 7X8 is 56…

“Oh, god, you’re big, unh.”

1345 X 28! 563 X 329! 63 X 15349723!

Dean gave up around the time the headboard started thumping. He made his bed, now he was gonna just have to listen to his brother fuck someone in it. Dean was here to make sure. He was damn well going to make sure.

There was a lull in the rhythm, and Dean was just about the check his watch in the gloom because, what had that been, like two minutes? Apparently Sam’s stamina was for shit after two years. Dean didn’t blame him—two years—but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give him crap about it. Sounded like Sam’d even left the lady hanging; not cool, little bro.

Then he heard it. Jenny said, “What are you doing?” and maybe her voice sounded strained. Dean cocked his head and squinted, as if that would help see through plywood. There was a chorus of bed creaks as Sam said, “Just let me—“ And then Jenny groaned out a low “Noooo…”

Dean opened the door.

Just a crack, because Jenny’s moan had sounded more whiny than angry, her question more distracted than scared. But Dean had to know for sure.

It looked like a porno spread. Jenny lay on her back, her head nearly hanging off the edge of the bed. Sam was on top, thrusting like a champ, arms bearing his weight as his movements inched Jenny further off the bed. Dean cased the situation automatically, the same way he knew every exit in a bar or likely paths out of a forest. To his horror, his eyes—which had been dutifully scanning Sam’s body for injuries—were now on a runaway path toward a very unwanted dick sighting. 

Jenny. He was checking on Jenny. Sam had managed to get her head entirely off the bed now. Her hair cascaded down to the floor in a rhythmically shifting curtain. Her breasts were on perfect display, high and full, her nipples peaked and flushed with pink. She might have been complaining about shifting positions before, but now she was enjoying the blood rush. Her teeth were bared in a feral grin, her eyes closed in pleasure. Dean watched as she dropped her arms over her head, curving them inward as they reached the ground. Her hands fell in a strangely graceful position, and Dean was viscerally reminded of the time he fucked Tucker High’s lead ballerina, Kristee something, in the darkness of the costume closet. 

Kristee's slick ponytail had been so thick his hand barely fit around it. He’d made good use of it, pulled her head back nice and slow, watching her swallow carefully as he sank, slowly, into the heat between her thighs. Dean’s dick—the fucker—gave a reflexive twitch at the memory, and that was totally messed up, because Dean could have a daughter Kristee’s age now, not to mention Sam--.

Dean closed the door. Jenny was fine. Sam was fine. 

Dean focused on the closet door hinge, forced himself to take soft and regular breaths. He could do this. He’d waded through hip-deep snow with three cracked ribs while shouldering Dad’s weight back in ‘93. He’d held a tourniquet steady on Sam’s left leg when the kid was sixteen, just right, just perfect, and Sam had walked away from the hospital two weeks later. He’d put a bullet into the Yellow Eyed son of a bitch that had plagued his family for two generations. He’d learned to breathe while swimming in bourbon and denial after Hell. He’d been Death incarnate. 

This was a job. No choice but to man up, get ‘er done.

Turned out Sam’s shout of release was somewhere between I-just-got-shot and I-can’t-believe-you-fell-for-my-shitty-poker-bluff-Dean. Dean added it to his crap I’d pay money to forget list and continued to stand guard in the dark. 

*****

Dean was sitting on the edge of his bed when Sam got back from taking Jenny home. His elbows were on his knees and his eyes on the carpet. It had been long enough that Dean could pretend he’d come in naturally, like he’d been anywhere but right there the whole damn time. 

Sam grunted hello. Dean didn’t look up. Sam started getting ready for bed. Dean could hear all the familiar sounds, the water, the toilet, the duffle opening and closing. They sounded the same as always. The carpet had a stain in the upper right corner of his vision.

Sam got into bed and turned off the light. Dean sat up, swung his booted feet up on the bedspread, then lay down slowly like the end of a sit-up. His jeans were still on and his eyes were still open.

“Hey.” Sam pitched his voice soft, like they were camping and Dad was in the next tent.

“Yeah.”

“I, uh. I know that…Thanks.”

What was Dean ever going to say but, “Sure, Sammy.”

“I think I’m good now. I…He wasn’t there tonight. I thought maybe this would be the one thing he still had, you know? The last thing. That’s why I asked you to—to make sure no one got hurt.”

Dean could hear the traffic on the highway nearby. I-80, stretching out ‘til the end of the world. At least as far as Dean would ever want to go. Sam was quiet, and Dean let out a long, low breath of relief. Prayed the kid didn’t open his mouth again. Time to shove this whole night into an unmarked grave and forget they were ever here.

“So, it’s final now. You saved me from Hell. You did what I couldn’t do for you.”

Dean couldn’t help but glance over at that because shit. Sam’s profile was blue in the fluorescent light from the motel corridor outside. His blinks were suspiciously deliberate, his eyes trained on the ceiling. Dean figured with light they’d look wet. 

Sam was still under Dean’s scrutiny. Dean could almost see the seams where Sam had sewn his soul back together, piece by piece, squeezing out Lucifer and a lifetime of torture like pus from a closing wound. Sam had faked it ‘til he made it, standing on a bedrock of stubbornness that went right down to his core.

Dean rolled onto his side, and waited until Sam looked him in the eye. “Sam. You saved yourself.”

Sam’s smile flickered in and out, like a lighter not catching. 

“So I guess you cry after sex, then.” Because screw Sam for making the aftermath the most awkward part of the evening.

“Dean.”

“By the way, the video should be done uploading about now. Bet it hits top 40 on You Tube.”

“Dean.” 

Dean smiled a little. The jokes were pretty weak but there’d be time to refine his game tomorrow. There'd be time for lots of things tomorrow. Biscuits and gravy and Sam doing laundry for eternity to pay him back. Coffee and a good old-fashioned monster hunt. Sam smiling open and Lucifer-free, with his arm out the window of Dean’s baby and the sun glinting off the hood.

Dean turned over and went to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> So I was rewatching "Repo Man" (as you do), and one line really stuck out for me. Sam is watching the super-cute librarian sashay by while pushing a cart of books. She gives him a flirty smile. Lucifer croons over Sam's shoulder something like "We just don't read anymore, do we?" And I was like D: Sam isn't getting laid anymore because of the hell trauma D: Which actually may or may not have had anything to do with what the line meant. BUT I WROTE THIS FIC ANYWAY. :)


End file.
